Musings Over a Cup of Tea
by Ramiel the Scrivener
Summary: In 1947, on his trek to become Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle stops at the home of an old wizard in Europe for a cup of tea...


Musings Over a Cup of Tea

Ramiel

rrodriguez1961hotmail.com  
  
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Tom Riddle and all other Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling

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"More tea, Mister..." says the tall, aging wizard, florally patterned teapot clutched firmly in his gnarled, withered hand.

"Riddle," I say, answering his thinly veiled question, "Tom Riddle. And yes sir, more tea would be fantastic. Thank you." My quiet demeanour and impeccable manners have won me the trust of this foolish old man, who has spent the last hour boring me with his stories from the Grindelwaldian War. There is a part of me, the part that has long since abandoned the name of my Muggle father and has already assumed the mantel of Lord Voldemort, that urges me to kill this man in a most excruciating fashion and be done with it, as to move on to my goal, the tomb of the late Faust, little-known master of the Dark Arts who fell to my mentor, Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore is also my nemesis, though he does not know it yet. He will, though, soon.

I consider asking if I may stay in this home for the night, just to see if he ever notices the terror-stricken corpse of his late, matronly crone of a wife or the expired bodies of his grandchildren sleeping eternally in their bedroom. I decide against it, knowing that if I do, my quest for knowledge, my quest for power will be hindered by the grieving wails of this sentimental old fool. He will die before I leave this home, I think to soothe the raging Voldemort inside of me, and I smile politely as he launches into another tale of how he braved the German dark wizards to rescue a flock of Muggle children from the brigade of wizards. If I had been there, or at least been at that specific place, I would have let the Muggle children die, and maybe even joined in killing them all. Excruciatingly, of course. I find myself growing quite fond of that word, excruciating.

It is a shame I did not think this way before...or a shame I had to hide it. There were so many opportunities to recklessly kill Muggles, even as they gloried in killing each other, during the Grindelwaldian War. I hear that the Muggles call it the Second World War, as if the entire globe had become involved. The foolish Muggles are always focused on themselves. That is exactly why they need to die. I was there of course, having just completed my education at Hogwarts and under the tutelage of Albus Dumbledore, who had taken a sabbatical during my sixth year to battle Grindelwald, his former friend and partner.

I toy with the idea of plucking the man's eyeballs out, just for fun. The Cruciatus Curse seems a bit cliché to me at the moment, so I have refrained from using it as my all-purpose torture device. I hate the Muggles, but they do produce...interesting techniques. I bask in the warmth of his fireplace, and I wonder if perhaps I should heat one of his many pokers and use it on him while I pretend he knows something I want to discover. Torture is always more fun when they think you have a goal. They always bargain so desperately. Like a puppy being punished, they try and make themselves to be the victim, when in fact they have brought the rolled newspaper, or in this case blinding agony, upon themselves.

The tea is excellent, so perhaps I will spare him much of the torture. It is almost good enough to make me listen to one of his monotonous stories. Almost. As he progresses through his latest escapade, saving several well- proportioned, scantily-clad Scandinavian women from certain death at the hands of some Muggle army, I savour the subtle nuances of the tea's flavour. It is pleasantly bitter, just how I like it.

I am drawn from my enjoyment by the startling words of the foolish man. The words he utters mark him a corpse.

"Have you heard about that strange murderer? He's been spotted near here, and he's supposed to be torturing first, according to the authorities," Perhaps it is my undoubtedly evil grin that gives me away, but the man certainly makes the connection. In a split second, he realises that I am the murderer. I reach for my wand forgoing torture in favour of a quick, clean Killing Curse.

"Avada Kedavra!" I shout, and the green light strikes him dead. The telltale look of panic is still on his face. Satisfied, I settle back into the plush armchair in which I was seated and continued to enjoy my tea. As the sun rises and the flies begin to crawl on the rotting corpse lying on the floor, I realise that the room seems more complete without his spout of endless drabble permeating the air like some foul virus.

I stand; ready to leave this filthy pit of a town and find the tomb of Faust, to gain the power that will allow me to merge the bitter Tom Marvolo Riddle and bloodthirsty, puritanical Lord Voldemort into one being. I halt shortly before exiting and empty the remainder of his teapot into a cup, which I quickly down before leaving.

No sense in wasting perfectly good tea, after all.

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End file.
